


un deux trois quatre cinq

by ineloquence



Category: American Revolution RPF, Hamilton - Miranda
Genre: Gen
Language: English
Status: Completed
Published: 2015-12-25
Updated: 2015-12-25
Packaged: 2018-05-08 21:46:32
Rating: General Audiences
Warnings: Major Character Death
Chapters: 1
Words: 2,393
Publisher: archiveofourown.org
Story URL: https://archiveofourown.org/works/5514473
Author URL: https://archiveofourown.org/users/ineloquence/pseuds/ineloquence
Summary: <blockquote class="userstuff">
              <p>Five embraces shared between Philip and Eliza — for the actual_familton secret santa.</p>
            </blockquote>





	un deux trois quatre cinq

**Author's Note:**

  * For [shortinsomniacs](https://archiveofourown.org/users/shortinsomniacs/gifts).



> merry christmas, jasper, you outshine the morning sun.  
> xx

_i. when you came into the world you cried_  

The squall of first breaths break the baited silence of Eliza’s bedroom. Chest heaving and skin flushed with sweat, her head falls back in exhausted relief—too often do the exertions of childbirth end in haunting silences and the stillness of newborns; God, she knows, has this time heard her prayers.

The cloths in which her son is swathed are thin and loose, and as he gasps his first breaths, the tearless cries of a life just started, he is placed in Eliza’s arms and she cries as well. Held to the bared skin of her breast, she cradles him and weeps, overwhelmed with the magnitude of the little life she has been gifted.

His hair is dark as her own, body flushed and red-faced, eyes squeezed tight shut. So caught up in the tiny wonder scrawling in her arms, Eliza doesn’t feel the midwife pressing a damp cloth to her forehead, or feel the aches of childbirth which will remain for some days to come. Eliza barely manages to process the words as they ask whether she would like for Alexander to come back in now: for all his fervor in the days leading to their son’s arrival, he’d become overwhelmed by the birthing process, and rather than lose his footing to the greenish pallor his skin had taken, he’d elected to wait outside.

Later, Eliza feels guilty for her moment’s hesitation when the words do sink in; so utterly besotted by the newborn, a part of her is almost loathe to think she must _share him._ But then Alexander is rushing to her bedside, his fingers lacing tightly with her own as he gazes between Eliza and their son with eyes like lamplight through darkness, and she feels the moment has become yet more perfect. She coos gently down at the bundle, thumb tracing over the softness of his back, her response to her husband’s question coming perhaps a moment too late as she once again becomes transfixed upon the child.

  
“Philip,” she murmurs, feeling in her heart even as she speaks the name which had belonged to her father, that it is perfect. “His name is Philip.”

 

 

_ii. he’s been practicing all day_

“What if he doesn’t like it?”

The nine year old’s voice is a nervous quaver, Eliza’s gaze rising from the quiet concentration of her stitches while Philip’s eyes remain cast dubiously down to the sheet on which his poem is written. The day has been full of these anxious misgivings, the boy poring over each carefully written word on the page and looking, to Eliza, almost achingly like his father—those tell-tale Hamilton traits manifest themselves in the set determination of his brow and the scrunching of his freckled nose when this deep in concentration.

With a gentle sigh, Eliza sets her threadwork aside and opens her arms to the boy, Philip rushing quickly to perch himself on her lap and nestle against the warmth of her embrace. Nine today, Eliza’s heart tightens like her arms around him, holding him close, at the thought of how such big worries could plague such a small boy—Alexander spent many a night away from the warmth of their bed, hard at work in his study, something to which Eliza adjusted early in their settled life, but she cannot miss the impact his father’s long days of tireless, almost reclusive writing has had on Philip; as he’s gotten older and Alexander’s congressional duties have increased, the boy has seen less and less of him—kindling a fervent need to win, through the budding intellect that Philip, even now, knows his father so values, his affections whenever possible.

Cradling the young boy to her chest, Eliza’s voice is a soft, motherly croon which hopes to still the tide of anxieties which have tonight cast shadows over Philip’s usually bright eyes.

“We’ve been practicing all day, my love,” she brushes her fingers over the tangles of his hair, “And you haven’t stumbled over a single word. Hmm… if perhaps you refrain from changing the melody, I shouldn’t be surprised if your father weeps with pride.”

The last of her words are spoken in a tease, prompting a spark of mischievous light in Philip’s gaze as he raises his head to look up at his mother—his tendency to stray from their practiced piano melodies has earned him many a reprimand from his instructors, to the point where Eliza simply gave up and elected to teach him herself.

Relieved to see a smile once again upon the boy’s face, anxieties replaced again with excitement to show his father all he knows, Eliza presses a kiss to Philip’s mess of hair and gives the side of his leg a tap, signalling for him to hop up.

“Come, let’s go to the piano and practice one more time. Then we will call your father down for supper.”

The boy follows without argument, determined now to ensure his perfected recitation. Slight fingers settling on keys without a mother’s guide now, Eliza can’t suppress the swell of pride as he counts:

_“Un, deux, trois…”_

 

 

_iii. the best thing in our lives_

It’s a horrible focus Eliza keeps on the sensation of scrunching paper; balling horrid written words in her fist, she clenches tight in a vain hope that it might help erase the taste of bile which remains in her mouth—lingering as if it was she who had spoken them. Her shoulders shake and yet no sound comes out but for the wheeze of broken breath; body bowed, she curls in on herself, chest seeming to cave in from devastating impact.

She doesn’t know, later, how long Philip stood in the doorway of the bedroom, watching her weep in silent apprehension. Did he see her read the pamphlet—hear her tongue blindly trace the words on the cover before they were lost to her shattered silence?

Philip’s arms, too long now for his still slim frame thanks to a recent growth spurt, move carefully around his mother’s middle, chin resting on her shoulder and seeming to halt the erosion of Eliza’s form—if only for now. The fourteen year old doesn’t ask any questions, his usual endless inquisitions thankfully absent here. Eliza doesn’t know how she will tell him, but knows she must eventually—Philip is old enough to understand, and she shudders at the thought of the discovery coming from one whose words regarding the actions of he whom the boy admires more than anything, being offered with contempt rather than consolation.

But for now, Eliza cannot bring herself to utter the words—she barely refrains from descending into weeping once more; to open her mouth to speak of the _Reynolds Pamphlet_ would be unleashing something she dare not inflict upon her son now. Instead Eliza sits straighter, urging the boy around to her lap—an indulgence, as soon Philip would no longer fit her embrace in quite the same way—and wraps her arms tightly around him, face falling into his hair as Eliza breathes in the calming, childish scent of him.

They stay like that until Eliza can bare to think about the long days to come and her chest no longer feels like crumbling rock, exhausted by the emotions which now ebb and flow like a tide within her, prompted by misplaced thoughts rather than the waxing and waning of a moon. She resolves to keep any tears for the hours in which she may indulge them privately, without fear of distressing anyone.

Eliza is pulled from the beginnings of sleep’s embrace, the warm retreat of night promising to drive away the pains of the day, when the boy finally drifts away from her hold. She allows her son to guide her up the mattress and settles against him in a reversal of so many nights where Eliza had chased away Philip’s nightmares with whispered stories and protective arms. She can feel Philip’s heartbeat, a quiet thrum which slowed and calmed with her own, the boy sharing his mother’s distress and sensing when she has returned to a semblance of normalcy, and Eliza wonders how she could have missed how he has grown.

Then Philip’s voice rises through the hours of silence, quiet and hesitant, and she’s reminded that he hasn’t quite grown up. Not yet. “Is Pop going to come home…?”

In response her voice is barely audible, the words defeated and worn, a feeling familiar to those days when she wondered if Alexander would return from the war, settling like lead inside her. This feels like a new sort of battle. “I don’t know...”

 

 

_iv. i would always change the line_

She doesn’t remember getting the news, nor the time it took to get from the house. Looking back, all Eliza can recall from that first hour is a blur of horrible thoughts of what  _ might  _ have happened, haunting herself in her helplessness with nothing to do but wait and  _ pray.  _ The rest of that night she tries to forget.

The carriage hasn’t stopped before she is moving, no care for her long skirts in her haste, and she is met at the door. The lady of the house says no word, but spares Eliza a look which says she would wish this upon no mother, and the thought comes unbidden:  _ it’s possible he has died already.  _ Courtesies are discarded in moments of panic and Eliza feels her stomach twist as she lays eyes on Alexander leaning over a cot, his figure already bowed in grief.

A voice comes speaking words which she doesn’t recognise, and only the need for breath between them makes Eliza aware it is her own.  _ Is he breathing? Is he going to survive this?  _ She doesn’t wait for an answer, but moves faster.

Her knees go weak at the sight of Philip, lying on a thin cot and looking twice as small as he is; his skin has turned to a sickly pallor, the yellow-grey standing stark against the terrible, inescapable red which seeps through hastily pressed cloths and stains Eliza’s dress, hands, hair, as she kneels beside the boy’s cot and clutches his arm.

Philip’s first words, barely breathed, shaken, starting stronger than they finish, are an apology and Eliza has to swallow the tightness of her throat at the urgent need she feels to ensure his final words— _ what mother should hear the final words of her son?— _ are not wasted on blame. 

“We played piano…” Philip’s voice feel distant, as though spoken from within the memories he’s holding to, and Eliza gives a bleary smile, her laughter thin and shaking; her hand moving to rest over his as they had so many times when teaching him to memories the piano keys and learn simple melodies.

“You’d change the melody every time.”

Her gaze never leaves her son, frightened that if she looks away she will miss the light in his eyes and he will be gone. Her fingers tap gentle piano keys against his palm, the boy giving the ghost of a laugh as he registers the sensation. Drawing a shaky breath, she forces down the ache in her chest and can’t find it in her to dare say something which sounds like goodbye. Instead she retreats to their lessons:

“ _ Un, deux, trois, quatre, cinq, six, sept, huit, neuf.  _ Good.”

Philip dutifully echoes her while Eliza tries in vain to keep the numbers from shaking, tries not to think how faint his voice is, or the drag on each of his shallow breaths, or how she can barely feel the flutter of his pulse as she grips tightly to his hand. 

“ _ Un, deux, trois, quatre, cinq, six, sept, huit neuf.” _

Philip’s voice no longer echoes, and she no longer tries to keep her voice from shaking. The words waver and break and she pulls him into her arms; Philip’s body, bigger than her own now he has grown into it, seems too heavy in her arms, weighed down by its lack of response to her touch. Her son’s arms do not move around her; there are no laughed reassurances that he’ll be fine, that she worries too much. Not this time.

“Sept, huit, neuf…”

Barely a whisper, Eliza can hear Alexander behind her as he begins to weep—open, as in all things, in his grief. Her head falls against Philip’s chest and she, in turn, cries almost silently, tries to find a heartbeat, and then to imagine one. 

  
“Sept, huit…”

 

 

_v. oh i can’t wait to see you again_

Faith. It’s all you have when the long years continue to pass and you are the only one who remains.

Eliza has her faith; she knows the blessing she has been given in a life as long as her own, all the things she has been able to do, all she has witnessed. The Lord, in all His kindness, granted her a life she could never have imagined. But the years take their toll, and aged so, Eliza feels as if every moment passed and every loved one she has outlived now weighs upon her.

Oh, she is so tired, and it has been so long. How she wishes to sleep, prays for that glorious reunion with those she lost years and years ago, and those she promised she would follow shortly after, if God was merciful…

By the end she no longer fears death, welcoming it like a memory until now forgotten. There is no procession, no fanfare, and she feels there will be few tears wept—those who know her, know her time has come. Through all her works, all her efforts in her life… Eliza knows she has earned her Reward.

When her eyes finally close and the soft breath of sleep leaves her, it is not the arms of the heavenly host which guide her to her maker, nor—as she might have hoped—her Alexander, but the warmth of a different embrace. 

Philip stands taller than her still, his hair still unkempt and untameable, his smile still as toothy and warm as she remembered so barely; he pulls her into his arms with no need for a word to be spoken and God, Eliza knows, has this time heard her prayers.

  
It was only a matter of time.


End file.
